What I learned from Pinkie at the P.O.

Daphne SimpkinsCHICAGO TRIBUNE

Two days before the Postal Service officials started saying out loud on TV what they have been whispering to each other -- we need to cut back on service one day a week -- I was visiting the post office, and buying my Valentine stamps from Pinkie who works there. She is a lovely woman whose tempo of doing business suits mine.

If there is a line of customers, I often let other people move in front of me so that I can have an unhurried visit with Pinkie. While waiting, I visit with others, wondering only why there isn't a separate line for military families who want to ship packages to service people overseas. They should have premium access to Pinkie; mothers with children too.

But that's about it -- about all the reform at the post office I would propose.

The rest of us can wait to mail our missives or bundles because when you are old enough to run errands you know that waiting is a part of accomplishing most tasks -- of simply living. Sometimes a timeout is a healthy event. Or instructive.

I do not mind waiting at the post office.

I liked meeting that muscular, energetic man who explained that, yes, he was a physical fitness coach. "You're not ever going to really want to push yourself to a point of discomfort in exercise, but you have to be in charge of yourself. You are the boss of you."

I've walked many a mile in the park on those words.

Coach was not the only memorable man I've met there. I like the older guys who wear Old Spice and plaid flannel shirts. When they see me dressed for exercise, they encourage me automatically: "Keep it up young lady. (I'm 54.) Exercise is good for you."

I would send them all Valentines if I could, but I don't know any of their names -- just who they are: smiling older men who are at peace with themselves and have seen a lifetime of change and are not afraid. They are the boss of themselves.

Nor do I know the name of the handsome man who comes to the post office and also runs in my park where I walk. He calls out three mornings a week, "Hello, my Sister," and I reply, "Hello, my Brother!" If I ask "How are you?," he bellows, "Blessed by the Lord!"

I asked him once if he was a preacher, but he isn't. I don't know what he does for a living, but I know who he is. He is everyone's brother. At the post office, Pinkie is his sister.

Mine, too. I watched Pinkie the other day when a customer realized with a start that she had forgotten her wallet and was momentarily panicked about how to pay for her stamps. I was just about to step over and slip her $5 (she looked good for it), but Pinkie smiled and with a little wave of her hand stopped me. She urged the woman: "Get your wallet from the car. Everything is all right here." And then in a glance and with a smile that soothed a line of people who were inclined to pulse from the habit of pushing we inhaled Pinkie's smile of reassurance that everything was all right.

Pinkie had enough time; so did we. The lady returned quickly, paid for her stamps, and the line of customers moved up, none of us the worse for wear because life had slowed down for a spell. In fact, we swapped ideas about plumbing repairs and traded the names of handymen, and suddenly it was our turn to do business.

I bought my stamps and told Pinkie, "Seeing you is always a pleasure," and she said, "Oh, Girl, how you do go on."

I do go on -- here and there, listening in on the serious-sounding discussions of serious people who are considering important choices about business operations that will have a domino effect on people and the economy.

Who can understand it all? If the post office takes a day off, my Netflix movies will come a day later. Fliers will come a day later. Bills will come a day later, and I will pay them. Birthday cards and Valentines will be welcome whenever they arrive. And the people who are old enough to drive themselves to the post office when it is open will take their places in the line and wait for Pinkie -- or someone like her without grumbling because if you are old enough to drive, you are old enough to understand that grumbling isn't the same thing as problem-solving.

Like the men in plaid shirts, I understand that troubles come, change is inevitable, and sometimes a brother or a sister has to go find a forgotten wallet. If anyone in charge of making that decision about closing the post office for a day asks me what I think about it, I will remember that I am the boss of me, smile in honor of Pinkie (pray for her job security), and reply, "Do what you need to do. I know how to wait."

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Daphne Simpkins lives in Montgomery, Ala., and is the author of the memoir "The Long Good Night."